Things Left Unfinished
by Judge-Douglas-Mason
Summary: Encased in a plexiglass coffin, Nick does some reflecting
1. Chapter 1

Unfinished

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I'm gonna die in here, I just know I am. What a way to go; to die in a 6x2x2 plexi-glass coffin. There are so many things left unfinished. I never got married. I never had children, a family. I never got the chance to tell my parents and colleagues the truth about everything, the truth about me, how I feel about them. A life unfinished is what this is. So many things left unsaid and undone, and its now, as I lay slowly suffocating in this box that it all hits me.

What would I tell Grissom? Would I tell him that all I ever wanted to do was have him proud of me? That all I ever wanted was for him to stand up and take notice of me? Though I don't believe he knows it, I always thought of him as a sort of father figure. And whether or not he knows it, he's been acting as one. He's always been there when I've needed him, for a chat or pep talk, but I don't ever recall him ever actually saying that he was proud of me.  
There were the odd "Good Job" and "Keep It Up", but never an "I'm proud of you.". Maybe I was just wanting too much.

What would I tell Warrick? I think I'd have to say that he was my best friend and favourite colleague to work with. We'd be on a scene and not even have to talk to know what the other was thinking. We were synched like that. We had a kind of brotherly relationship in that we were close, had each other's back and would do just about anything for the other. Whenever I had a problem I'd come to him for advice and he'd readily oblige. He's the greatest.

Sara? She's like the sister I never had. She'd always jibe me and give me a hard time about stuff, but in a friendly sort of way. There was love there, but not THAT sort of love. More like "You mess with me, you mess with my family" love. And that's exactly what all these guys were, my family. But now this family is going to be one short.

I confided in Catherine about my rape when I was 9yrs old and thank God, she kept it to herself. She and Lindsay were so good to me. Knowing that I had no family nearby, they'd always invite me over for Thanksgiving, Christmas, etc. Now I'll never see her grow up. She's smart as a whip, Lindsay is, but in my opinion she needs a it of guidance that, maybe, Catherine can't give her. But all in all I would have to say that Catherine is doing the best she can with the resources she's got.

Though annoying at times, Greg is always good for a laugh or random comment. I love the tales he tells about his Papa Olaf. Leggo my Greggo, I'd say when someone would gripe about him or give him grief. Though he is still relatively young, he's wise beyond his years. He'll make an excellent CSI one day.

All of these things, if I had the chance, I'd say. I'd say that I love them all and was glad to have been a part of their lives, for even these brief past five plus years. They were my family in every sense of the word.

I wonder what they're doing and thinking right now. Are they trying to find me? Are they following cul-de-sac clues? If I know Grissom, he's probably sitting in his office either pouring over his lap top or reports trying to figure out where I am. That's one thing about him...he NEVER gives up.

I can tell by my watch that I've been in here for a few hours and this leaves me with two options (1) rack my brain, reflecting on my life and the things I never did, or (2) do the unthinkable. Reaching down, I pull up my sidearm and examine it closely. Removing the cartridge, I can see that there's only one round. At this point I'm seriously considering the latter. Though I'd hate for whoever finds me to see me that way, with a gaping hole in my head, but it'd be an immense relief...instantaneous. I don't know if I'd be able to say sane enough while my oxygen slowly depletes, but at least I got rid of those damned lights. But now there's the problem of these damned ants. Damn, if Griss were here he'd know what kind they are and why they hurt do friggin' much when they bite...maybe they're fire ants.

I can feel myself slipping in and out of consciousness, flashbacks from my childhood and younger years. Most of them are good, but some bad. I see tire swings, family barbeques, sitting on the front porch of my Grandparent's house with Pop-Pop listening as he told me stories about WWII and his buddies and such. I also see myself in my first year as CSI, sitting Brass's office listening to his speech about this being the number one lab in the country and blah, blah, blah. Though he can be abrasive at times, I like Brass a lot. He's honest, brilliant and crafty. It was a shame about the whole demotion thing, but I think he's accepted it and I feel that he's doing more for the lab where he is now than he was when he was supervisor.

Damn, these ants are really pissing me off in a big way. They're everywhere. Hmmmm, will I did from the bites before I suffocate or blow my brains out? I guess there's only one way to find out. Right now I'm seriously considering my sidearm and as I raise it to my chin I can feel movement, but that might just be wishful thinking on my part because I want out of here so damn bad.

Cocking the hammer back and closing my eyes, I can still feel movement, but for all I know it could be voles or something. Saying one last Hail Mary and an Our Father, I summon up all my reserve and feel my finger grip the trigger.

There's banging, now. I open my eyes and see the most beautiful sight in the world. I never thought of Grissom as a good looking man, a little on the plump side and that whole Grizzly Adams thing working for him with the beard and all, but right now as I prepare to coat the inside of this plastic sarcophagus with my grey matter I see his bright eyes and hand pressed on the other side of the glass. Then I hear him, he calls me something I've not heard since childhood; Poncho.

Not sure if he's real or just some figment of my imagination, I keep the gun pressed to my chin. Then I hear it again, he calls me Poncho. He's real...he's real and he's here. I see his hand again and I hear him call to me. Raising my hand to the glass to touch his, so to speak, it hits me. I drop my gun and wait...I wait for the one man who's never failed me in the whole time I've known him.

I suppose somewhere in the back of my mind I knew he'd come through and as I look around, still encased in this box, I can see everyone. I see Warrick standing over me. I see Brass, Catherine, Greg and Sara. I even see Ecklie. God, I've never been so happy to see Conrad Ecklie in my whole life, but from this moment on my life has changed,  
hasn't it?


	2. Chapter 2

Its been about a week since the incident and I honestly have to say that my outlook on life has changed dramatically. I see things more clearly now and have a greater appreciation for the little things. Things that I never gave a thought to before, I see them as bright as day……the way Grissom sits peacefully in his office pouring over annuals of bugs, the way Sara meticulously grooms herself in the locker room mirror, Catherine and her struggle to be a good mother as well as a good CSI.

I went home for a week and just returned home today. By home I mean back to Texas. It'd been quite sometime since I'd seen my parents and I hated for them to see me in that box the way they did…..like an embarrassment. Every time I look at my mother I see the sadness in her eyes. I know she never wanted me to be a CSI, saying it was potentially too dangerous. I remember my response to her on that, saying that anything, given time, situation and motivation, could be dangerous. Hell, working at the Piggly Wiggly could be dangerous. I remember the supermarket incident from a couple years ago….people doing their shopping and "Bang" a hail of gunfire. Like I said, anything could be dangerous. But this has always been my passion. I've always wanted to find the clues, piece them together and solve the puzzle, and that's what I do; I'm a problem solver.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

They told me to take two weeks, but I just couldn't. I felt like I was shirking my duties. In all reality all I needed was a few days, but after I got out of hospital my parents scooped me up and dragged me home, but now I'm back…..this is my real home. My family, dysfunctional as it may be, these guys are my brothers and sisters. We've grown very close in years past and I've come to count on them for any and everything. I know if it came down to it that they would all have my back.

My only gripe is how everyone is being so nice to me. Its really not necessary, things like this happen……well, maybe not exactly like this, but you know what I mean. Crap happens. We all have our days and we all have forced moments of clarity, mine just happened to be when I was in that casket. Hindsight being 20/20, there are things I would have done differently last week. There was never a doubt in my mind that my "family" would come to my aid. I should have just lay there and waited patiently for Grissom et al to find me, but if you were in my shoes you would have freaked too.

I seriously considered it, you know. Having that gun in my hand and feeling the muzzle pressed to the underside of my chin, I can still feel the cold metal of it and my mind clears, save for one thought……to summon up the courage, or cowardice, as the case may be and my finger feeling the tension on the trigger as I tightened my grip on the trigger.

But right now that's neither here nor there. The present is where I live, not the past. Dwelling and festering accomplishes nothing and there are far better things that I can and should be doing with my time here on Earth.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxX

This is what life is about. As I kneel down and with a pair of long necked tweezers, I pick up a cigarette butt that some idiot criminal left at the scene….God, I hate litterbugs. Placing it in a bindle and stowing it in my kit after labeling it, I continue around the perimeter of the property and find something more substantive. It amazes me how stupid some people can be, whether its intentional, accidental or incidental, they're dumb. I believe it was Tommy Lee Jones that said that "A person is smart, but people are stupid." He's right, you know. When you're alone with only your thoughts to keep you company your mind is set on the task, but if there's someone with you there's the distraction and quibbling over whatever and that's when people mess things up.

Like right here……a nice big fat wad of bubble gum, an empty soda bottle and a big glob of spit on the concrete of the area surrounding the backyard pool. I know they're all fresh because the family is out of town and only the live in house keeper was there and I'm sorry, but I can't envision a middle aged, overweight Hispanic woman leaving all this behind her especially when she's the one who keeps the home clean.

It was a mess inside. I could see a bit of it as I passed by the open front door to see the blood and the complete disarray of things. A vase knocked over, a mirror smashed to a thousand pieces and the housekeeper sprawled out on the floor. It looks like she put up a fight though. Her knuckles were raw and about three feet from where she lay there were blood drops leading out of the house and down the walk…….feisty old bird.

I package up my litter and continue around the outside of the house and found Grissom at the side yard snapping photos of what seemed to be point of entry, as the window was smashed and there were very fresh tracks in the dirt outside said window. As I pass by him he turns and gives a lopsided smile and sets down his camera to ask me how I'm doing. I know he means well, but I really wish he'd stop bugging me about it. It happened, I got through it with help from everyone, but its over and done with, life goes on and we move on with it.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

The day is done and as I sit at home checking my mail and listening to a basketball game on the tellie my doorbell goes off. I'm not expecting anyone, so I lean back in my chair and look through the glass beside the front door and see that its Brass. I shout that the door is open and for him to come in and he does. Out of everyone at the lab he's the one who's asked the least about the incident. He and I went through something similar a few years back, not the kidnapping but the imminent peril of things. He was the first one to help me Nigel Crane went ape-shit. He's always been there for me and this is the first real visit I've had from anyone from the lab this week.

Coming up behind me, he sets his strong hand on my shoulder and sighs deeply. I can tell that there's something he wants to get off his chest, so I get up and offer him a drink. We sit in the living room and after a long, slightly awkward silence he speaks.

"You gotta quit scaring us like this, Nick."

"Scaring you!" I ask jokingly

"Touché. So, whatcha doin'?"

Pointing to the computer, I gesture to the monitor.

"Just checking some mail and watching the game. What brings you by?" I ask

"Just passing by. Thought I'd stop by." He said, taking a swig from his beer

More silence, and for that time I wonder why he's really here. He stares blankly out the tellie and after a few moments he sets his drink on the coffee table and stands up, moving to sit beside me on the couch for a second. Again, he puts his hand on my shoulder and this time he looks me in the eye.

"If you ever want to talk, you know I'm always here, right?"

"I know, Jim. I thank you for not pestering me with questions and niceties this past week. I just want to get on with my life."

"Well, like I said, if you ever want to talk, I'm here for you. That's what friends do, they look after each other."

He claps me on the back and heads for the front door and I stand up.

"Jim?"

Turning round', he smiles.

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

TBC?


	3. Chapter 3

I can't do this. There are just too many of them. Every time I see one I get all goose pimpled and my heart starts racing. But who could have guessed that a B&E would have so many friggin' bugs? It looks like this lady has been here for a few weeks, at least. There are roaches, maggots and other creepy crawlies. The back door was left open by the perp, I suppose, and I guess that's how all the unindigenous bugs in here.

Its been two weeks and several sessions with the staff psychologist but I'm still not 100. I like to think that I am, but I'm not. I've been prescribed something for my nerves and the panic attacks I've been having ever since being in that box; sometimes they work, sometimes they don't. Its all a crap shoot. Life, that is. My fate was determined by the flip of a coin. It could have just as easily been Warrick in that box, but it was me; my fate laid by a small silver disc with some long dead president on it. I wonder how I would have reacted if our places were reversed. Would I have stayed by the computer like he did or would I have done something else? I'd like to think that I would have sat vigil the way he did for me, but I honestly can't say. Its hard to put yourself in someone else's shoes when confronted by a situation such as mine was.

Right now its creeping the hell out of me to see all these little creatures literally covering this body. I need to relax. Just one little blue pill and half an hour later I'll be fine. It's the waiting that's killing me. It doesn't help that I'm here all by myself, either. I'll just go outside and sit until the pill takes effect. Opening the back door and closing it behind myself, I sit on the back stoop and close my eyes, slowly breathing in and out through my nose; slow, deep breaths, that's the key.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

I hate to have to take those damned pills, but truth be told, I think they're the only reason I've been able to keep my head during the workday. Through the bodies, the bugs, the crepulance of man and the general nonsensical nature of some crimes, I find myself wondering how we, as a civilization have advanced as far as we have. Like the one last week that Greg and I were working. We were called to a scene where a dead teen was found laying face first in a sandbox in a community park, his trainers missing. With further investigation we found the killer and that's what it was over; a damn pair of trainers. What have we become when we're willing to take a life for a simple pair of shoes? Well, maybe not simple; they were $175.00 Reeboks. First off, who would shell out that much for a pair of tennis and secondly, what sort of person would kill for said shoes?

Greg made a comment, saying that's why he wears Van's, because they're stylish, comfortable and cheap. Me, I wear boots; ASOLO hiking boots, more often than not. They're comfy and offer great arch support. I know I sound like my mother when I say that, but its true.

More and more, I find myself thinking about the evil done by one man to another for trivial things. True, we, as a civilization have advanced a great deal in the last hundred or so years, but I think that we've also regressed quite a bit. When I see someone that is clearly on drugs, willing to do just about anything for their next fix, I think of the depression in the 30's, where people would do just about anything for food. Then I think of the hunter gatherers of thousands of years ago. They killed because they had to and not because they wanted to, and they weren't wasteful either. They ate the meat, used the pelts for clothing and warmth and the bones jewelry and such. The Indians of America before it was America had it right. They'd hunt for what they'd use and not a single deer or buffalo more. They prayed when they took a life and thanked their Gods for the bounty and were very respectful of everything. Sometimes I find myself wishing for simpler times in which you could just live your life in peace and watch your children and grandchildren grow up in front of your eyes. Now, we've got parents outliving their kids. No parent should ever outlive their child, but it's a pity that that's the world we live in now.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

I'm feeling a bit better now, so back to the evidence. Thus far I've got treads, prints from various areas around the victim and house as well as what looks like what could be a big glob of spit right beside the victim's head. Someone must have hated her with a passion to have done all this damage and then spit on her. Well, once we get her back to the lab we'll know more. I know I shouldn't be here in the house before David comes and releases the scene, but I'm already here and the sooner in, the sooner out. I haven't touched the body but I've taken lots of fun photos for Grissom so he can identify the bugs, some of which I recognize and some I don't.

Finally, the pill has taken full effect and I can do my job without the panic attacks. David has come and gone, so now I'm truly the only one here in this house, this house that smells of death and fear. Gathering up my kit and camera, I take one last series of photos of the front door that looks as if it had been kicked in. Stowing my crap in the boot of the truck, I slide behind the wheel and head for the lab.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

Sitting in an empty room, the one with the table that Doc Robbins lusts after, I sift through all the things that I'd collected from the scene including the clothes, if you want to call them that, that the good doctor was so gracious to provide me, I find what looks to be acid burns of some sort, or maybe they're cigarette burns. I'd sniff them, but for the funk, so I grab my glass for a better look. Yup, charred edges and easy crumbling; cigarette burns. Funny, though, I didn't see an ashtray anywhere while I was processing. It must have been due to the perp. Looking through the bindles I've collected I find one with a butt and said bindle in hand, I go down to DNA for identification. Even though Greg isn't so much in DNA anymore, he's there right now. He takes the butt and does his thing.

XxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxX

I'm home and I'm dog tired. Tossing the mail on the coffee table, I shuffle my way to my bedroom and slide out of my clothes, climb into bed in just my shorts. Some Cymbalta and I'm out like a light in half an hour. These pills, I don't mind so much taking because they help me sleep which has been hard lately, for obvious reasons. The dreams are kind of weird sometimes, but as long as I'm asleep I'm happy……….for the most part.

Someone let me out of here. I feel the walls closing in around me and the air is as stale as the recycled air on an airplane. There's no light, no glow sticks…….just me and a gun. I pop the clip and there's only one bullet, one meant for me. No recorder to leave a goodbye message on, just me and a gun. On my shoulders I can feel the glass pressing hard. I feel like an old car at some junkyard that's being pancaked. Now I feel it on the soles of my boots and the top of my head. I'm gonna be squished to death in this box and the only relief in sight is in my right hand, pressed to my chin. I've been here before, I know the drill. This dream is not new, but it is recurring verbatim. As my finger tenses against the trigger and as I squeeze everything goes black.

"Agh, crap" I say, sitting bolt upright in bed, covered in sweat. I look over at the clock on the bedside table and its only been a few hours since I've retired. Looks like another night of infomercials and re-runs of Night Court and The Facts of Life.


End file.
